steady and strong. Quinn could also now see Nate's chest expand and contract. A quick visual check revealed no entry or exit wounds along his back, and no pool of blood gathering on the floor beneath him.
Quinn leaned down to Nate's left ear. 'Nate,' he
said. There was no response. 'Nate. Wake up.' A low moan escaped from Nate's mouth. A
moment later his eyelids fluttered. 'Take it easy,' Quinn said. 'Are you hit?' Both eyes opened slowly. 'Quinn?' he said, his
mouth pressed against the floor, slurring his speech. 'Are you hit?' Quinn repeated. 'I don't think so.' 'Maybe you should check.' Nate closed his eyes again. With effort, he rolled
over onto his back. 'Fuck,' he called out, wincing. 'What?' Quinn asked. Nate rubbed the side of his face. 'He hit me in
the jaw.' There was a red patch on the side of Nate's face, but otherwise he appeared unmarked. Quinn stood up. 'You might want to put some ice on that.'
Quinn walked back into the living room. The phone was still on the couch where he'd dropped it. He picked it up and was about to dial for help when he heard a muffled voice on the other end.
'Quinn?' It was Peter. 'You're still there?' 'What's going on?' 'Gibson got loose.' 'And?' 'He's dead.' Peter didn't answer right away. 'It would have
been better if you'd taken Gibson alive.'
'Well, shucks. I wish you'd told me that sooner. Or maybe I should have told him to wait a moment while I checked with you.'
'Give me the details,' Peter said.
Quinn took a breath, then filled him in.
'You need help with removal?' Peter asked.
'I'll take care of it.' Quinn paused. 'Are you going to tell me what's going on now?'
The line went quiet for a moment, then, 'We're not sure.'
'You realize I'm not coming to D.C., don't you?'
'It's not a good idea now, anyway. I think you should probably just get lost.'
'Is that an official directive?'
'Let's just call it officially unofficial,' Peter said. 'Make yourself scarce. I don't care where. In fact, I don't want to know.' 'The son of a bitch knew where I lived,' Quinn said, more to himself than to Peter.
'More reason to get out of there. Whoever's behind this might try for you again. And if you stay where they can find you, they might not miss next time. But it's your choice.'
'My choice,' Quinn said. 'Right.' He hung up the phone.
Quinn stared for several moments out the back window into the Los Angeles night. Peter was right. If it indeed was a disruption, then disappearing was the only option.
'Nate,' Quinn called toward the kitchen. Nate, legs unsteady, weaved into the room, falling more than sitting onto the couch. 'What?' 'I hope you haven't unpacked.'
Chapter 8
Quinn and Nate entered the Tom Bradley International Terminal at LAX just before 10 a.m. As they made their way through the Saturday morning crowds, Quinn had to constantly fight an urge to look over his shoulder. He had little doubt there was someone somewhere at the airport looking for them. Or if not both of them, at least him. He knew he had to maintain the delicate balance between being aware of his surroundings and trying not to draw any attention to himself. Frontline op agents could do this in their sleep, but Quinn – especially since he had Nate with him – had to work at it.
Having Nate stay in L.A. had been an option, but not a good one. Whoever wanted Quinn dead had to know he had an apprentice. So leaving Nate behind would have meant setting him up as a target. If Nate had a bit more experience, maybe they could have tried splitting up. But he was only four months in on an apprenticeship that would last anywhere from three to four years. Four months was nothing. Nate wasn't even close to being prepared to handle this kind of situation. Unlike Quinn, he had come into the business straight out of college, a recommendation of a friend. If Quinn left him, he might as well just tie Nate to a chair in the middle of his living room and put a big welcome mat at his feet. The end result would be the
Quinn leaned down to Nate's left ear. 'Nate,' he
said. There was no response. 'Nate. Wake up.' A low moan escaped from Nate's mouth. A
moment later his eyelids fluttered. 'Take it easy,' Quinn said. 'Are you hit?' Both eyes opened slowly. 'Quinn?' he said, his
mouth pressed against the floor, slurring his speech. 'Are you hit?' Quinn repeated. 'I don't think so.' 'Maybe you should check.' Nate closed his eyes again. With effort, he rolled
over onto his back. 'Fuck,' he called out, wincing. 'What?' Quinn asked. Nate rubbed the side of his face. 'He hit me in
the jaw.' There was a red patch on the side of Nate's face, but otherwise he appeared unmarked. Quinn stood up. 'You might want to put some ice on that.'
Quinn walked back into the living room. The phone was still on the couch where he'd dropped it. He picked it up and was about to dial for help when he heard a muffled voice on the other end.
'Quinn?' It was Peter. 'You're still there?' 'What's going on?' 'Gibson got loose.' 'And?' 'He's dead.' Peter didn't answer right away. 'It would have
been better if you'd taken Gibson alive.'
'Well, shucks. I wish you'd told me that sooner. Or maybe I should have told him to wait a moment while I checked with you.'
'Give me the details,' Peter said.
Quinn took a breath, then filled him in.
'You need help with removal?' Peter asked.
'I'll take care of it.' Quinn paused. 'Are you going to tell me what's going on now?'
The line went quiet for a moment, then, 'We're not sure.'
'You realize I'm not coming to D.C., don't you?'
'It's not a good idea now, anyway. I think you should probably just get lost.'
'Is that an official directive?'
'Let's just call it officially unofficial,' Peter said. 'Make yourself scarce. I don't care where. In fact, I don't want to know.' 'The son of a bitch knew where I lived,' Quinn said, more to himself than to Peter.
'More reason to get out of there. Whoever's behind this might try for you again. And if you stay where they can find you, they might not miss next time. But it's your choice.'
'My choice,' Quinn said. 'Right.' He hung up the phone.
Quinn stared for several moments out the back window into the Los Angeles night. Peter was right. If it indeed was a disruption, then disappearing was the only option.
'Nate,' Quinn called toward the kitchen. Nate, legs unsteady, weaved into the room, falling more than sitting onto the couch. 'What?' 'I hope you haven't unpacked.'
Chapter 8
Quinn and Nate entered the Tom Bradley International Terminal at LAX just before 10 a.m. As they made their way through the Saturday morning crowds, Quinn had to constantly fight an urge to look over his shoulder. He had little doubt there was someone somewhere at the airport looking for them. Or if not both of them, at least him. He knew he had to maintain the delicate balance between being aware of his surroundings and trying not to draw any attention to himself. Frontline op agents could do this in their sleep, but Quinn – especially since he had Nate with him – had to work at it.
Having Nate stay in L.A. had been an option, but not a good one. Whoever wanted Quinn dead had to know he had an apprentice. So leaving Nate behind would have meant setting him up as a target. If Nate had a bit more experience, maybe they could have tried splitting up. But he was only four months in on an apprenticeship that would last anywhere from three to four years. Four months was nothing. Nate wasn't even close to being prepared to handle this kind of situation. Unlike Quinn, he had come into the business straight out of college, a recommendation of a friend. If Quinn left him, he might as well just tie Nate to a chair in the middle of his living room and put a big welcome mat at his feet. The end result would be the
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